


Nachtmusik

by phantasma



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, also for chapter three: TYL and canon divergent, for chapter three: that chronic illness bad end, mixed timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantasma/pseuds/phantasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>three nights, three timelines / 2008-2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Notte d'inverno

                Four AM hits and Hayato jolts awake to the slanted view of the ceiling, the folds of blankets, and Uri's tail, in order of proximity from greatest to least. The latter he flicks away (nose twitching at the tickle of fur) as he wriggles out from under the kotatsu (Uri mews plaintively at the disruption, stretches, twitches his whiskers and recurls himself closer to the spot kept warm by Hayato's body heat), and squints in the light, at the unintelligible fuzz of the television, still on. When he fell asleep, he doesn't remember, but —  with a glance toward the table top —  it seems to be at about problem fifty-four of his differential calculus homework; at least, that's where the equations start to become illegible. It's no matter —  there's time to work them out, and he doesn't need much time, anyway. He rubs his eyes, fumbles for the nearest pack of cigarettes, stumbles through the cramped apartment to the narrow balcony.

                Outside he shivers but the smoke and the sight of the stars (Sirio, Procione, Polluce, Capella among their other winter friends) are worth it; when he finishes the first one he lights another out of waning habit and the need for an excuse, takes it more slowly, tries to be patient. His eyes grow heavy and he starts to feel hazy and the ash at the end crumbles off and dots the railing and he pays no attention until—

                "Aah, Hayato, what are you doing here?" And Takeshi is standing in the doorway, framed by the living room light, barefoot and in sweatpants and one of those infernal baseball jerseys that he's accumulated over the years, running a sleepy hand through his unkempt hair, looking slightly bewildered in a way that's muted by sleep. Hayato just looks over his shoulder and taps his cigarette with his forefinger and Takeshi steps out despite his bare feet because he can see that Hayato's cold, too. And he grins, widely, and Hayato cocks an eyebrow and Takeshi says, "Put that out, okay?" and Hayato rolls his eyes because the spent cigarette was mid-crunch anyway, and it slips from his fingers suddenly when Takeshi's behind him very close and—

                "What the fuck are you—"

                Tugging his jersey over Hayato's head, too, nesting them together and pinning Hayato's arms helplessly to his sides.

                "You were shivering!" Takeshi laughs and his breath is hot on Hayato's neck and his chest is warm against Hayato's back and Hayato shivers again, but not because of the January air. He lets his head fall back against Takeshi's collarbone, lets his eyes close, wills time to stop and his brain to think to balance all of the feeling that keeps busying his heart. They stand in silence until Uri pads out and weaves his way through their legs, startling them both out of their reverie.

                "Let's go in," Takeshi says, pressing his lips to Hayato's temple, "and I'll make hot chocolate. With milk, so you can go back to sleep, too."  
  
                Don't mother me, Hayato wants to say; "Alright," he says instead, ducks down to free himself from Takeshi's shirt, flattens his hair and scowls (facetiously) at his perpetually bizarre solutions. He leads Takeshi back inside, their fingers threaded together and Uri at his heels, and the time on the clock and the calculus on the table mean nothing, and, he thinks, at the sound of Takeshi rummaging through the cabinets, that he'd forego days of sleep any time for the chance to wake up to small wonders like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 2012, originally posted on DW 
> 
> for gengar


	2. At Midnight

 A harsh rapping against the windowpane startled Yamamoto out of bed, but being blessed with a natural assassin-intuition and deep understanding of a certain Gokudera Hayato, he had been awake for nearly fifteen minutes beforehand, listening to the sound of the rain tapping the roof and listening more intently for the telltale knocking of a visitor. He staggered to his feet and made his way to the window quickly enough, unlocking it with a click and tugging it open. There was barely a second to enjoy the light misty breeze and earthy smell of the rain as a pair of muddy canvas sneakers were thrust through and dropped into Yamamoto’s waiting hands, followed by a leg swung over the sill (clad in damp jeans, too-small), and then a whole body, straightening up and shaking out stringy-wet silver hair.

“You’re lucky I’m on the ground floor,” Yamamoto mused through a laugh, setting the shoes in a box placed beneath the window. They were used to this, these midnight visits, and they were equally used to doing their best to cover up any trace of evidence— a few footprints would cost them too much if found.

“And you’re lucky I’m willing to do this,” Gokudera countered mock-miserably; Yamamoto had to stifle a chuckle, because the whole escapade had been the former’s idea to begin with. Granted, it was a very good idea (nothing less was expected from someone as clever as Gokudera, naturally), and gave the couple together-time they often weren’t able to enjoy.

Yamamoto strode over to his dresser, turning back to toss his companion a dry set of clothes.

“What’s on the schedule tonight?”

Gokudera let the clothes hit the floor in favor of raising a single finger and rummaging through the messenger bag he had over his shoulder.

“Moonlight Sonata.” He said once he had found what he was looking for, waving a CD in the air. 

Yamamoto agreed to learn more about classical music if Gokudera promised to at least _tolerate_ baseball— and thus far, it had proved to be a fair trade. This week was piano courtesy of Ludwig van Beethoven, and the previous day had been “Für Elise.” (Gokudera had been _horrified_ when he heard that Yamamoto wasn’t familiar with either of the two, and sought to immediately remedy that; the sports prodigy had it _coming_ if he didn’t recognize any of Chopin, Mozart, and Bach, _too_.) 

There was a snap as Gokudera shut the CD player he had brought, stepping closer to shove it into Yamamoto’s hands.

“You listen.”

The taller teen complied, nodding and taking the object, settling back onto his futon. He was just over a minute into it, almost drifting to sleep with the melody, when he felt Gokudera curl next to him, (having changed clothing), and reach up to steal an earphone for himself.

“It’s beautiful,” Yamamoto whispered. “Have you played it before?”

  
“Once or twice.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Well enough.”

“Hey, Gokudera?”  
   
“…Hmn?”

“Will you play it for me, sometime?”

There was no response other than the sound of Gokudera’s even breathing, and Yamamoto felt a smile slide across his face; the guy must’ve fallen asleep. With the sonata on repeat and the warmth of a second body near his, the sound of the rain persistently beating against the roof, it was easy to follow suit.

* * *

 

Come sunrise, Gokudera will have already been gone for an hour, having pressed a kiss to Yamamoto’s forehead, changed back into his own clothes, and disappeared out the window. And when Yamamoto would awake soon after, he’d find a note on top of the neatly folded pile of borrowed garments—

_Four o’clock, school music room. You wanted to hear me play?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in 2008, and originally posted to phantasmatical at LJ and FF.net


	3. Time Bomb

Time moves differently when you’re dying, Hayato learns. Every sunset seems sweeter, every embrace seems longer; it’s like the world is slowing its rotation and the clock is slowing its ticking hands for you, to make each moment, each second you cling to life and all of its worth, last longer. Tick, tick, tick.

He coughs, pressing a thin hand to his mouth, and Takeshi looks up from his dinner, a plate of pasta gone cold with time wasted on distractions. The question goes unsaid but understood; _are you going to be okay?_

Hayato blinks, casts his grass-green eyes to the table, lets his ash-grey hair fall from behind his ears to hide his face. The reply doesn’t need to be spoken; _no, I won’t, but I’m fine for now._

He has no appetite, stands up, legs pushing his chair back with a screech, picking up his plate and turning to dump the half-eaten remains of dinner into the trash can.

Takeshi stands, too, and meets Hayato at the sink, catching him around the waist and tugging him closer. He puts a hand to his chin, gently turning it upward, and kisses him.

Hayato wonders if Takeshi can taste the blood. He’s gotten used to the taste himself, the metallic reminder that his days are limited and his breathing is soon to be labored. It’s his own personal aide memoire, a bright red string tied around his middle finger, a constant voice whispering in his ear on late nights; _time time time is running out. Tick tick tick, and you’ll be gone._

Takeshi can taste it on Hayato’s tongue, the mix of blood with the lingering ashtray-flavor of smoke, even though the other man’s stopped smoking for months now. Had to stop, really, considering the habit was killing him faster than he thought it would. Hayato isn’t going to die from a gunshot or an explosion, nothing so valiant, nothing so characteristic of their hitman-life in the game of the mafia.

“Stop,” Hayato gasps, pulling away, clutching at the front of the other man’s shirt.

Takeshi can barely choke out a _“What’s wrong—?”_ before Hayato starts coughing, deep, wracking coughs, causing a quick hand to fly to his mouth to stifle the noise, nothing more than a sickening attempt to regain his breathing. Takeshi is just as quick to respond, he’s adjusted to this by now, he doesn’t panic like he used to, or visibly wince at the sight of the blood that’s sure to be the result. It ends as rapidly as it began, and Hayato jerks back, licking his lips and closing his fist, clenching, keeping the palm of his hand hidden. The blood is sticky, sickly-warm, as it works its way through the cracks between his fingers.

“M’going to bed.” He mumbles, stepping past Takeshi, so close their shoulders brush, and stumbling off to the bedroom they shared. Takeshi’s soon to follow (doesn’t like to leave Hayato alone unless he absolutely has to, doesn’t want to lose another one, not like he lost Tsuna— and really, it’s a blessing Tsuna isn’t around to see Hayato deteriorate like this—) after he finishes with the dishes, climbing into bed. The sheets are warm from Hayato’s body heat, and Takeshi smiles.

Hayato is a fitful sleeper these days, Takeshi learns. He tosses and turns, twitches and rolls over, mumbling incoherent half-formed statements and syllables. Sometimes, Takeshi can hear his name. Sometimes he hears Tsuna’s name, or Bianchi’s, names just as dead as the bodies they belonged to, just memories. It’s a little unsettling to hear his own name called out like _that_ , in a tone like _that_ , and Takeshi wonders what Hayato’s dreaming about. Hayato whimpers and Takeshi runs a calloused hand through his feather-light hair.

“Shh,” he whispers quietly, trying to soothe his pain. He receives no reply other than Hayato’s uneven breathing, and leans closer to him. Presses his lips to the other man’s forehead, wishing silently, _time, go slowly, I’m not ready to lose him yet._

But the clock’s face doesn’t change, can’t show any sympathy or pity, and stares in the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight that seeps through the cracks in the curtains that haven’t been opened in weeks.

Tick, tick, tick. Just like the sound of a bomb.

* * *

_And I just hope you know that if you say goodbye today, I’d ask you to be true. ‘Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in 2008, and originally posted to phantasmatical at LJ and FF.net 
> 
> (I still use MCR lyrics as inspiration; this one's, predictably, "Cancer")


End file.
